Morning came fast.

The city still slept beneath a gray-blue sky, but Julian was already awake—

as always, 05:00 AM sharp.

The air inside his apartment was cool and still. He rolled his shoulders, centering his breath. Then he began.

A sequence of martial drills—

stances, strikes, balance work—each motion sharp, deliberate, and silent. The rhythm echoed faintly against the walls, a quiet dance of focus and form.

Afterward, he shifted into light gym work in the apartment's small fitness corner—pushups, resistance bands, slow controlled squats. It wasn't about sweat. It was about precision. Maintenance.

His breaths came steady, measured. No wasted motion, no sloppy rhythm. It wasn't the most punishing session he'd ever done, but that wasn't the point.

These mornings weren't about breaking limits—they were about laying bricks. The foundation beneath the walls.

He could almost hear Crest's voice in his head: "Consistency is sharper than talent." He didn't need to hear it twice.

By the time the clock edged toward seven, the world outside had turned faint gold.

A door creaked open nearby. Julian glanced up—

Omar Megeed stepped in, a sheen of sweat across his forehead, breathing steady from an early run.

"Hey," Megeed called, flashing a tired grin. "You up early too? Figures."

Julian smirked. "Can't waste mornings."

"Yeah, well…" Megeed checked his smartwatch, eyes widening slightly. "It's almost seven. We've gotta go soon. Breakfast's mandatory for the younger players—team rule. It's all programmed through the nutrition plan. Believe me, you do not want to get a warning from the staff."

Julian raised a brow. "That serious, huh?"

"Trust me," Megeed said, mock grim. "First offense, they just stare at you. Second offense, you're running laps before training."

Julian chuckled softly. "Got it. Five minutes. I'll change and meet you at the door."

"Cool. Don't be late, rookie."

Julian stepped back inside his apartment, the faint scent of metal and coffee following him.

He pulled on his HSV training kit—dark blue tracksuit with the club crest pressed over his heart.

A quick check: phone, access card, sport bag.

All set.

As he slung the strap over his shoulder, the mirror caught his reflection—

focused eyes, calm breath.

Another day. Another climb.

He reached for the door—

Ding.

A familiar blue window blinked into view before his eyes.

[Congratulations, host. Fame: Noticed → Local Buzz]

Julian froze mid-step, a slow grin tugging at his lips.

"Nice."

His fist clenched lightly—small victory, earned.

He opened his phone and typed his own name.

Julian Ashford HSV.

Headlines flooded the feed—

screenshots of his signing, clips from the press conference, snippets of his bold words replayed with captions.

"Call them idiots if they don't promote me."

It was everywhere—Reddit threads, Twitter reposts, even highlight reels on YouTube.

Fans debated, skeptics argued, but one thing was clear—

people were watching now.

[Congratulations, host. Reward: Local Buzz Pack]

Julian exhaled softly. A reward.

He glanced at the time. 06:57.

He couldn't open it yet. Not now.

Discipline first. Training first.

The glow faded as he dismissed the screen.

There would be time later.

He shouldered his bag and stepped into the hallway.

The hum of morning traffic drifted faintly from outside.

Time to go.

Fame could wait—

but progress never did.

…

Julian and Mageed rolled out together, wheels humming softly along the damp morning streets.

The sun hadn't fully risen yet; a thin mist lingered over the bike lanes, the air cool and clean.

Both wore their HSV training kits, backpacks slung tight, the city still stretching awake around them.

The streets smelled faintly of wet asphalt and fresh bread from a bakery already opening for the day.

Passing cars hissed against the damp pavement, while the faint clatter of trams hummed from a distance. Hamburg was waking slowly, but for them, the day had already begun.

It didn't take long before the silhouette of Volksparkstadion came into view—its steel frame glinting faintly in the pale gold light. The hum of the city gave way to the quiet pulse of the HSV Campus.

They parked their bikes side by side and walked toward the canteen.

"Hey, good morning!"

Anssi's voice called from behind.

Julian turned, smiling. "Morning."

Mageed lifted a hand. "Morning, bro."

Anssi fell into stride beside them, stretching his shoulders. "So, Julian—how's Hamburg treating you?"

Julian chuckled. "Haven't really gone anywhere yet. So… pretty much training and sleeping."

"Ahh, my bad," Anssi laughed. "Alright, end of season then. We'll drag you out. You've gotta see more than treadmills and stadium lights."

"Deal," Julian said, lips curling slightly.

They reached the canteen—a wide, modern hall filled with sunlight streaming through tall windows. The air carried a blend of roasted grains, fruit, and faint spice—clean fuel for sharp bodies.

Each player scanned their pass before entering.

A digital display flickered briefly, confirming identity and personalized plan.

Julian's tray slid across the counter moments later:

grilled chicken breast, steamed vegetables, scrambled eggs, and a portion of oats—clean, balanced, dense with fuel.

A nutritionist nodded approvingly as she passed.

"Extra carbs for recovery. You're building muscle mass, right?"

Julian nodded. "Yeah. Trying to catch up."

She smiled. "You will. Just stay consistent."

He took his tray, joining Mageed and Anssi at a corner table by the window.

Sunlight spilled across the table, painting faint gold over their trays.

Julian dug in quietly, savoring the clean flavor. Across from him, Mageed leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Your food looks way better than mine," Mageed muttered, practically drooling over Julian's plate like a starving hyena.

Julian glanced at his friend's tray—boiled chicken, steamed greens, and nothing else. Barely a meal. "Uh… yours looks like punishment."

Anssi laughed, setting down his fork. "It is. Kid just passed his weight limit last month. Now he's on the diet program."

Mageed slumped in defeat. "You make it sound like prison."

"Discipline isn't prison," Anssi said, his tone calm but edged with wisdom. "It's the cost of control. Our bodies are our weapons. No matter how skilled we are, if the weapon dulls, the warrior weakens. Without a strong body, you'll never use your full power."

Julian paused mid-bite, eyes lowering for a moment.

He didn't need the reminder—but he respected it.

He'd lived this truth before.

A warrior without a vessel was just a ghost.

He'd felt the sting of frailty in this life—lungs burning, muscles failing, body lagging behind his will.

That weakness… he would erase it, piece by piece.

He looked up, offering a small nod. "Thanks for the reminder."

Anssi smiled faintly, voice softening. "Just take care of your body. Football punishes those who forget."

Julian met his gaze. "I won't."

After that, the table settled into easy silence—

the quiet rhythm of forks against plates, the faint hum of chatter around them.

Mageed groaned dramatically with each bite, chewing like a condemned man. "I miss real food."

Anssi chuckled, shaking his head. "Stop whining. You'll thank me when you're flying down the wing again."

Julian smirked, finishing his last bite. "Looks like discipline tastes bitter, huh?"

Mageed shot him a glare, then laughed. "Bitter as hell."

Julian leaned back in his chair, letting the sunlight warm his face.

It wasn't just food—it was fuel. Another small step toward the warrior's body he needed.

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